Dear You.

You'd probably never believe me if I told you that my life has been nothing short of a soap opera this year, judging by the inactivity on my blog.

You probably would also not believe that this has been one of the worst years of my life. 

When I say the lowest of the low ... It's no exaggeration.

The. Absolute. Pits.

It's the kind of stuff that would make for good television -- or at the very least, a few good blogs. But for some reason, I just couldn't get myself to ever open up a page and start writing. Certainly, after the last two blogs about heartbreak, there has been plenty more where that came from -- among other things. And truth be told, it makes me feel extremely pathetic. 

But who wants to sit around writing every day about how pathetic and worthless they are? 

Not me. (You want me to write about Feelings? I'll pass.)

I'd rather write about exciting new developments and positivity and growth (after all, I have been a Miami City Hall reporter for more than a year -- and not the sleezy, sensational kind).

Hence, my last post was about Trayvon Martin. And I wish I were here today to begin down that path of "exciting new developments", but really I came here because, well ... I am on the verge of explosion. So I guess it's time to let it out. (Some of it, anyway. The easy stuff.)

How many times does someone have to treat you like utter rubbish before you finally realise that maybe they aren't right for you? And when did I become THAT girl? The pathetic one who's clinging to something that would rather leap into a piranha's mouth than reach back a few inches?

When did it get this bad, and how, for God's sake, do I make it stop? 

I've got plenty of other things I could be focusing on right now (like finding a job) than this nonsense, AGAIN.

If you don't know how to think ahead about the consequences of your current actions, or how to not say what you don't mean or won't mean in a week ... Then please keep your actions and your bullshit as far away from me as possible. You saw me sitting here alone, quite content. So just let me be. I don't go out of my way to reach out to any of you and I don't see what pleasure you get out of interrupting my solitude with commitments and promises you don't intend to keep. Spare me.

I promise I can do without it.

I've really had enough dream-selling for one year. So the next time you get the urge to save me from myself with lies you think I want to hear, don't.